Photograph Courtesy Jerry Olivas

Cholita (sloop) with another sailboat anchored in Islas Todos Santos cove.

They were just the sort of charter passengers we liked: out-of-town landlubbers who paid in advance and didn’t ask questions. We planned to take them to Islas Todos Santos, two uninhabited islands off the coast of Baja. A full-day south, with wind mostly out of the north. Then a full day and night back, since we would be sailing into the wind. No charting necessary; we made this run all the time. And no worries about the weather; August was almost always calm around here.

Photograph Courtesy Jerry Olivas

I learned to sail with my older brothers when I was still a kid. Our maiden voyage was in Coronado’s Glorietta Bay; we had talked my dad into taking us there from Chula Vista. All the way there, my mom kept repeating that it was a bad idea, because we didn’t know anything about sailing. She told my dad that he had to go with us, maybe because he’d been in the Navy. We rented a small sailboat and climbed on board. My dad untied us from the dock and gave us a little push; he did not hop on. The sail filled with wind. One of my brothers pushed on the tiller in an attempt to steer. The sail whipped around, and we quickly capsized. It was a long and quiet ride home to Chula Vista.

Eventually, I learned how to sail properly, mostly in the big bay. There was something about the freedom of being on the ocean that I really enjoyed. You become part of the movement of the water, the air, the sky, and the boat. Small wonder that I eventually found work helping Jim run charters out of San Diego. Who is Jim? Don’t ask so many questions. I assumed he was a licensed charter boat captain, though I never saw a license and never saw him wear a captain’s hat. Also only rarely did we stop at the Harbor Police Dock when entering San Diego Bay. But Jim always seemed to know what he was doing when it came to sailing and navigating, and he had some fantastic sea stories. That was enough for me, and for our customers.

We sailed a 46-foot racing sloop that was made entirely of wood. It had one mainsail and plenty of foresails and used a tiller for steering. We also had a small dinghy we always took with us on open ocean voyages that we kept turned upside-down and strapped down towards the bow of the boat. The sloop had a small head below and a little galley with a seating area. It could easily sleep four below, four more on deck, two in the cockpit, and two more below the boom. It also had a small inboard diesel engine. There was a radio frequency transmitter aboard that never seemed to get good reception, but we rarely used it. There was also a big globe-like compass mounted in the cockpit that worked just fine.

I never knew who owned the boat, but I did know it was fully licensed with stickers and numbers on the bow. And I was never sure if our charter business was legit. But then, it was the early 1970s; a time when a lot of businesses around the docks and marinas were, let’s say, “self-regulating.” I did know that we supplied everything: food, drinks, sleeping bags, towels, and lifejackets. The day before the sail, I would shop for mostly quick fix-it things like lunch meats, bread, some fresh fruit. I often got several fresh pineapples for good luck, but no bananas, because it’s bad luck to have bananas on a boat. Jim believed that bananas onboard could cause a boat to sink. For drinking, we brought plenty of water, but no beer or wine because it took up too much space. Whiskey would be our main libation, and Jim did like his whiskey.

Our passengers showed up at the marina right on time at 7 am: two middle-aged couples, one teenaged daughter, and a small dog named Chip. They hadn’t mentioned the dog, and I knew Jim wouldn’t be pleased. Like people, dogs get seasick. Also like people, dogs can easily fall overboard, especially when a sailboat is constantly rising and dropping with the ocean swells. As I gave Chip a friendly pat on the head, I noticed the luggage. I told our guests to pull out one change of clothes plus something warm for the evening and their toiletries, and stash the rest in our marina locker, and reminded them that we would provide food and drinks.

I made small talk as I rushed things along so we could get underway. Jim always told me not to ask customers questions about their boating experience, as discussions might cause delays. Just keep everything in motion and get them onboard. Within 15 minutes, everyone had what he needed, and we headed to the sloop. The passengers smiled when they saw its sleek lines and tall mast. Jim waved at us and gave everyone permission to board. Chip was a little apprehensive, so I just picked him up and placed him on the deck, ignoring Jim’s unhappy glance as I did so. I quickly stowed everyone’s belongings down below and told them I would tell them everything they needed to know when we got underway. There would be plenty of time for talk during the close quarters of the sail.

Jim started the diesel engine. I cast off from the dock, hopped onboard, and off we went into the bay, heading for the open ocean. We would hoist our sails once we passed the final San Diego Bay channel buoy, not too far from the Point Loma light house. After that, it was a straight compass sail south parallel to the Baja coast. Just before entering the open ocean, everyone had a sip of whiskey — to christen the voyage and to ensure we had a safe journey. As was customary, Jim cast his first pour to the sea to show our respect to Neptune.

It was a typical August day: clear and sunny, with light wind and calm seas. Everyone seemed to be enjoying himself. Jim and I explained the boat’s protocols: hold on to something so you don’t fall overboard, and don’t hit your head on the boom. We hoisted the mainsail and a foresail, which quickly filled with wind. As expected, within about 30 minutes, all our passengers were seasick, including Chip. Jim and I just kept on trimming the sails while trying to keep everyone laid out on the deck. By noon, the wind was moderately strong and had changed direction just a bit, blowing slightly offshore. We trimmed our sails to what is called a beam reach, with the wind mostly over the port side of the sloop. We also changed out the foresail to a larger sail called a genoa. We were making really good time, and would make it to Islas Todos Santos in the early evening. By early afternoon, everyone was getting used to the pitch and roll and starting to move around some. But no one was hungry, not even Chip, who found his place in the cockpit right under the tiller.

As we approached Islas Todos Santos, we headed for the little protected cove near the northern point of the east island. The closer we got, the better people felt. We sailed right into the cove, quickly lowered the sails, dropped an anchor, rowed the little dinghy over to shore, and tied off the stern on a big rock. The idea was to have both the bow and stern secured so the boat wouldn’t move too much while we were in the cove. Everyone was cheery. Even Chip was walking all over the place. I tidied up the boat, stowing the sails and coiling the lines, and then made a light dinner. Then it was time for a little whiskey, especially for Jim, who told a few sea stories before we bunked down for the night.

The passengers woke early the next morning, anxious to get off the boat to see some of the island. Jim and I didn’t usually do land excursions, and tried to get out of taking anyone ashore, but our guests were persistent. So I rowed everyone, including Chip, over to a rocky cliff area where we could disembark without too much difficulty. I tied off the little dinghy and guided everyone around for a couple of hours on some of the small trails. From one point, you could clearly see the lighthouse on the west island. When we returned to the cove, we saw that another boat had shown up. Happily, it happened to be someone we knew from Newport. They had sailed over from Ensenada and were going to spend the night and head home the next day. Like us, they were running a charter, but their sailboat, a ketch, was bigger than ours and much better equipped.

For the rest of the day, we had fun on the boat. My favorite activity was swinging on the mainsail halyard from the mast and splashing down into the water. Jim told some more sea stories. We practiced some sail knots, and cut up one of the fresh, delicious pineapples I had bought. I noticed that it had started to get rather warm, with Santa Ana winds blowing out of the east offshore. That was a little unusual. Then, toward the late afternoon, Jim started to get concerned about our exposure to the wind coming out of the west because our anchorage was open to the east.

That evening we all swam over to the other boat for a get together. All of them were really enjoying themselves. Our hosts had plenty of cold cervezas they had picked up in Ensenada, and we brought whiskey and another pineapple. But I did notice Jim and the other boat’s captain talking about our anchorage and the wind direction which seem to be getting stronger. The ketch had a better radio than we did, and apparently, there was a small hurricane a couple of hundred miles south. Another rather odd thing: the water was glistening with bright phosphorescence. Night sailing with phosphorescence is spectacular, because the splashing water around the boat lights up in bright green.

It had been a great day. Everyone was tired and a bit tipsy, so we decided to bed down a little earlier than usual. We had a big day coming as we tacked back and forth into the wind to San Diego. Even with a fair amount of motoring, we probably wouldn’t get back until midnight. That night, the wind picked up even more which made the boat to rock quite a bit. I was laid out in the cockpit, trying to sleep, when Jim approached and said I better re-check our shore tie-off to make sure it was secure — and that he and I would need to stay awake to make sure our anchor was holding. About that time, we noticed that no one was getting any sleep. One of the passengers suggested we sail at night, because we definitely had good wind. Plus, it would be neat to experience the glow of the phosphorescence around the sloop. Jim was cool to the idea — he didn’t want to be stuck motoring all night if the wind died down — but everyone was so excited that he finally relented.

I quickly untied us from the shore, and we pulled up anchor, fired up the inboard diesel engine and slowly motored out of the cove. That’s when I noticed one of our passengers eating a banana that they must have smuggled onboard. Jim noticed too, and gave me a very worried look. I could tell he was rattled. I tried to stave off my rising banana panic, and kept on with my duties: raising the mainsail, putting up a foresail, trimming them so they filled with air. If the wind held, we’d make good time, even with our tacking. And the phosphorescent water was as beautiful as we’d hoped.

Then, as we began to cross in front of the islands — they were maybe 200 yards away — the wind suddenly stopped. We had been sailing for only about 20 minutes, and it was already time to start motoring, which wasn’t great. Jim told me to bring down the sails, and as I did, I could hear the grinding noise of the engine turning over. But it wasn’t starting. Jim kept trying, but the more he tried, the more the battery drained. Before long, the battery was totally dead. Jim was maintaining a cool demeanor, but I could tell we were in trouble. Both Jim and I could see that the boat was now drifting back toward the islands’ rocky shores. I don’t think the passengers realized just how bad the situation was. Mostly, they just watched Jim and me try to figure out what to do.

Jim sent me below into the bilge to check the engine. I fooled around with the spark plug wires and distributor cap and looked over the wiring in general, but nothing looked disconnected or out of place. After a few minutes, Jim tried again to start the engine. The battery had picked up enough juice as we sat idle to crank it over a couple of times, but no luck. The boat continued to drift back towards the islands. I could now make out we were heading for a very rocky shore — with some jagged bigger rocks slightly offshore. In order to keep the passengers from panicking, Jim kept the sloop pointed north as if we were headed in that direction. But of course, we weren’t. It was time for more extreme measures.

First, Jim told me to put the anchor down off the bow in hopes that we could snag it on something as it dragged along the bottom. No such luck — the water was too deep — but it may have slowed our progress toward the shore. To help with slowing, Jim had me put a couple of sails in the water. By this time, we could see the rocks clearly, and even hear the waves hitting them. No use trying the radio, because the battery was totally dead. We had a flare gun with two flares, both of which we fired. By now, we were within about 100 yards of the rocks. I could see a few big ones protruding from the water near the shore, and I knew if we hit one, the wooden hull would split, and the boat would quickly sink. If the boat managed to miss those rocks, the keel would hit the bottom near the rocky shore. That might allow for a less dangerous exit over the side and a swim to shore. Although the ocean swells were of good size, the shore break was not overly powerful.

Everyone was pretty scared, including me, but Jim seemed to be keeping his cool. All of us put our life jackets on, and we began to discuss when and how we would abandon ship. At this point, everyone knew we were in a very tough life-and-death situation, and that in order to survive, everyone needed to follow instructions. Jim told to me that it might be possible for two people to row the little dinghy to a safe place to go ashore — perhaps the stronger of the passengers and the teenage girl. He said I should use the surfboard we always brought with us and paddle ashore. The rest would need to jump off the ship with their life jackets on and try not to get smashed on the rocks. It didn’t look good for anyone, but I figured I probably had the best chance, thanks to the surfboard. And like Jim, I tried to stay as positive as possible.

We kept on trying the engine, but the battery was now completely dead. Although the ocean was rolling pretty heavily, with no wind, it was fairly glassy. The anchor and sails slowed our drifting down, but we continued to get closer and closer to shore. At times, it almost seemed like we were becalmed, but no. After maybe four or five hours of drifting, it started to get light. Still no wind, so it was time to execute the plan. I put the dinghy in the water along with the surfboard. Jim decided to have three people go in the dinghy instead of two. That would leave Jim and just one of the passengers. That led to an argument about who would stay with Jim on the boat. It was like something out of a movie: everybody competing to see who could be the most heroic and go down with the ship. Finally, someone won out. We made ready to abandon ship; if we stayed aboard any longer, the surge towards shore would be too strong to row the dinghy parallel to the shoreline.

I got the three people and Chip in the dinghy, pointed them the direction they should row, and pushed them off. Then I lay down on the surfboard and started to paddle alongside the dinghy. That’s when I heard a shriek from the passenger who had stayed onboard with Jim; he had spotted the ketch that had hosted us in the cove just the night before. They saw us too, and fired off a flare to let us know they were on their way to help. We all re-boarded the sloop, and it took the ketch only a few minutes to reach us. They threw us a line, which I tied off on the bow, and began towing us away from shore. We cut the anchor loose and pulled the wet sails onboard, along with the dinghy. After about 15 minutes, we were out far enough away from the island to call over to the captain of the ketch and explain to him what had happened.

The ketch was very well equipped, and had a long jumper cable that we used to give us some battery power. Sure enough, after a couple of tries the diesel motor kicked over. We untethered from the ketch, which sped away quickly — I think the captain was worried our passengers would try to change ships, and he was headed to Newport — and started motoring north. We could see Ensenada in the distance, and all the passengers said they wanted to go ashore. But just then, the wind started to blow out of the south, and Jim nixed the idea, assuring everyone that with the wind at our backs, we’d be in San Diego sooner than usual. We hoisted the mainsail and the big genoa foresail and set out.

By midmorning the wind was quite strong, probably because of that hurricane away south. So we changed to a smaller foresail, and even considered reefing the mainsail to reduce the wind area on it, which would mean less stress on the wooden mast. The boat heeled way over, so we had everyone sit on the starboard side to keep the boat flatter in the water and give us as much speed as possible. We were now on a roll, perhaps about as fast as the sloop could go, maybe as much as 14 knots (about 16 mph). This was the type of sailing I liked; heeled over, the bow splashing up and down in the surf, the water spraying constantly, the sloop pushed to its limits.

Jim was focused on trimming the sails and keeping us on course, which in heavy seas requires a strong arm and shoulder to hold the tiller. No one seemed seasick, which may have been because of the adrenaline from our near-shipwreck and high speed. No one seasick meant everyone was hungry, so went below, made a few sandwiches, and cut up another one of our fresh pineapples. After we ate, it was pretty much hold on, watch for dolphins, and keep an eye out for landmarks on the Baja coast so we could monitor our progress north. Jim went below and brought up some whiskey for those who wanted it, while I stayed on the tiller. We even started to play some 8-track tapes, although we knew this would drain the battery a little. Then, as Jim and I were sitting in the cockpit with Chip curled up at our feet, we both saw it: another passenger eating a banana. Jim looked at me with the same worried look as before. I thought to myself, we already had our bad luck.

A few minutes later, the wind suddenly stopped. But wind on the ocean doesn’t just stop. It pauses, or it lessens, or it changes direction. This time was no exception: the wind changed direction, caught the sail, and made the boom swing rapidly across the boat. Luckily, no one got hit. Unluckily, when it finished its sudden swing, we heard a tremendous crack. The mast had split right near the bottom. Everyone was stunned, but Jim and I had the presence of mind to bring down the sails. There was nothing to do but motor for home. The engine started this time, which was good. But the swell had not subsided, which was bad. Everyone started to get seasick again, and some anger started to surface. Jim and I both told everyone that we would be fine and not to worry. But honestly, we were in a dire situation once again. Thanks to the wind, we weren’t too far from the Coronado Islands. But we knew that was as far as our fuel would take us. Sure enough, within about an hour, we ran out of gas and began to bob up and down and drift away from shore. Once again, the life jackets went on. Everyone just sat silently on deck.

It was late afternoon. We could see a few other craft, mostly sportfishing boats, not too far away. Jim whispered to me that he hoped someone would spot us with their binoculars and come to our assistance. The battery had just enough charge for the radio to work, so we began the standard “mayday” distress call. We used all the channels we could transmit on, giving our position as best we could. But the reception was so scratchy that we weren’t sure it was broadcasting to anyone. Also, because the mast hadn’t actually snapped off, we were able to hoist up a black flag. Although not a regulation distress flag, if it were spotted, it would most likely work as a signal that we needed help.

This was the lowest point I had ever experienced on a sailing cruise. On past charters, people had fallen overboard, we’d had a near collision with a super tanker, and one person had suffered a serious heart attack that required a helicopter pickup from the Coast Guard. But those were terrible moments. This was turning into a terrible trip, an infinite number of terrible moments strung together and crawling miserably by. It was getting to be early evening, and it looked like we were going to be spending the night floating on the open ocean. We sat quietly, staring at the water and the fishing boats and the Coronado Islands in the distance. As it got dark, we could see lights on shore on the other boats.

That gave Jim an idea. There was still some juice left in the battery, so he turned on the lights: red and green on the bow, white on the stern and on top of the cracked mast. I thought the lights made us look like the rest of the fishing boats. And that gave me an idea: start turning the lights on and off, in the hopes that it would indicate our distress. Jim agreed, and within an hour, it looked like one of the fishing boats was getting closer to us. Soon, we could hear the motor of the boat, and then the people on the boat. It was a sportfishing boat out of San Diego Harbor. We all started hollering as the boat got closer. The captain called the Coast Guard, and less than an hour later, we were being towed back to San Diego Harbor. It was all straightforward with the Coast Guard. They came up alongside the sloop, asked if anyone was injured or needed immediate health assistance, threw us a line, and towed us to the Harbor Police Dock on Shelter Island. As we drew near to the dock, it was easy to sense what our passengers were thinking: Get me the hell off this boat.

Once we docked, Jim and I were ready to make some apologies or at least try to make light of our near-death experience, but there was no time for that. Each passenger hastily grabbed whatever they had brought on board and headed for dry land. Even Chip took off like a rocket when I lifted him from the deck and placed him on the dock. That was the last we saw or heard from any of them. They didn’t even come back for what they had stored in our dock locker.

That left Jim and me sitting in the sloop’s cockpit at the dock about 10 pm, just staring at each other in a kind of stupor. I said to Jim, “Whiskey and Carole King.” Jim nodded. I put the tape in the 8-track and turned it to full volume. The last thing I heard out of Jim’s mouth that night was, “No bananas.”